You. Me. A Bag of Clothes.

I tucked your clothes away today. I wanted to hold them to my face and take in your scent that I loved, but it had long since faded. These clothes have not touched you in so long. I really should return them to you. Maybe mail them or drop them off at your doorstep. But a part of me wants to hold onto them for a little longer. Hold onto the memory of us, that I ended single handedly, for a while longer. Maybe use them as an excuse to see you one last time. If I still have them, I still have a chance. I still can keep you in my life.

It’s been 3 weeks since we broke up, eleven days since we last talked. It feels strange. Unreal. I feel as though we’ll text again next week. We’ll talk and hang out like nothing changed when I get back home. Now that I’m free I feel like I’m spiraling, free falling. Before I pushed you away, I used to have someone to catch me. I’m not sure if I regret it or not.

I can still feel the chill from that Friday night, my first night home since moving into college. I remember the numbness in my legs from standing rigid and still in the cold. Maybe I was a bit hasty to make my first order of business be to break up with you, but you don’t know the whole story, the thoughts and feelings that have swirled in my head over the past year. I thought it was the only thing to do, the only solution.

I sat in your car and looked down at my shoes. You knew what was coming, but couldn’t believe it actually happened. You were in disbelief, asking me why. Can’t we fix this? I’d rather try together than give up. You were angry. At some point we got out of the car. I think you told me to leave, to get out of your car, but then you followed me out. I’ve never heard you swear so much. You didn’t understand how I could love you but not be in love with you. You told me it was fucked that I was throwing away something that made me happy. You didn’t understand. I told you I wanted to feel passion, to feel sparks on my tongue and butterflies in my stomach. Your tearstained face and hoarse voice didn’t care. I can’t erase your pain from my memory. All you wanted was to convince me to stay. And I would’ve. If only I hadn’t kissed someone else.

I remember your last grimace at me from that night. You started to drive away, then stopped and rolled down your window. I can’t remember what you said, something like “Do me a favor and don’t do this to anyone else,” or “Have a nice life.” This wasn’t what I wanted. I never wanted to end in ashes like this. I got into my car (parked a couple spots away in the high school parking lot) and drove home, exhausted and drained of tears. My Mom was home waiting for me, and I recounted what happened, flooding the tear gates again. I slept in my parents’ bed that night, wearing an oversized, football sweatshirt and baggy basketball shorts that did not belong to me. I needed the comfort.

I awoke from sleep and the first thing I felt was guilt. Wave after wave it haunted me, and haunts me still, threatening to drown me. I wore the tears on my face like war paint, surrendering to defeat. This war was doomed from the start. I looked like a girl ravaged by the wilderness but didn’t feel remorse, for I put myself there. Wearing your clothes like a cell, I hereby punished myself for the next 1000 years.

A day went by without any contact from you. I thought the silence would tame the torment inside. It didn’t. I thought maybe journeying to the eye of the hurricane would weather the storm. That Sunday, we agreed to meet again, in another parking lot.

We walked on the bike path, our hands in our pockets, shuffling along at a respectable distance from each other. It felt strange, out of habit, our bodies wanted to walk close to one another. As if on auto-pilot, our paths started to veer towards each other, but then we’d catch ourselves and right our courses. You were much calmer than the angry flame you were last time. This time, you were cold and closed off. And yet, you still tried. You still begged for me back. It crushed me seeing you in pieces.

We sat down on that bench and you planted a kiss on my lips, hoping to make me see that this was the way things should be. But still, as it has been for the second half of our relationship, I felt nothing. And with defeat, you put your head in my lap, looking for comfort from the one who hurt you. It devastated me, and still does.

“We’re not going to be close like we were. We can’t be friends.”

“I know,” My lower lip quivered. More tears came.

Neither of us wanted to leave. We stood there, stalling; hugging each other for what we thought to be the last time. “You know why this is so hard to leave right?” you tried again. “You don’t want to. You know this is wrong. We’re supposed to be together.” I just sadly shook my head. Again, we said goodbye, but this time it was one I could stomach. You were nicer. You said you wanted to be mean but you couldn’t because it was me and you loved me. Again, I watched you go, second guessing what I had done.

That weekend was long. I didn’t leave the house. I barely ate. I felt like I didn’t deserve to. When I went to leave for school, gingerly I laid your garments on my bed, as if to monumentalize, commemorate your memory, like some sort of martyr. But I couldn’t turn around and leave them behind like I did to you, so I snatched the clothes back up, taking my ghosts with me, holding them close to my heart.

We’re broken up hoping to fall back together again. I won’t be able to feel anything for you but I don’t want to let you go. In your eyes, all I’ve seen is lust, but elsewhere in another’s eyes, I’ve seen love. All I want is for you to have happiness, but I can’t give that to you at the expense of mine. The only comfort I have is that I know I’ll see you again, for the bag of your clothes still sits, untouched, in my car.